She had agreed to meet him at the pizza place. The small Italian eatery had a comfortable atmosphere, and the food was excellent.
She saw him as soon as she walked in. He was turned away from the door, but she would know those broad shoulders and too-long wavy hair anywhere. He was talking to someone. The man must be in his late fifties, perhaps a well-preserved sixty plus. His blazer, slacks and mahogany suntan reeked of money. She always noticed things like that, not in an envious way necessarily, more in a surprised way that these were the kind of people she would be in the same room with, compared to her upbringing. It didn’t necessarily make them any better than her, and she now knew which knife and fork to use to not embarrass herself, but F. Scott Fitzgerald indeed said it right, the rich were different.
Viera was seated by the far windows, and the man was at the next table. His dinner companion, a male in his thirties, was scrolling through his mobile phone.
Viera was listening to the guy, but his eyes wandered across the room, and he smiled broadly and lifted a hand when he saw her. She took a deep breath to steady herself and joined him at the table. He jumped up and gave her a welcome kiss on each cheek. She shivered as his arms lightly held her shoulders.
“Emily, this is an old family friend, Harry Vautier. Harry, this is Emily, a good friend of mine.”
Harry reached across and shook her hand. “Nice to meet you. I’ve known David since he was a boy. His dad used to do some work for me.”
Viera—she didn’t think of him as David, not yet at least—said, “My dad has a plumbing business, and he has done work for Harry on some big developments in the past.”
Dewar said, “You’re a property developer?”
“Yes, I am. I’ve recently finished those new flats by the waterfront.”
More trendy apartments marketed as luxury and priced too high for ordinary folk. It was a story familiar in the UK, but it was rife on this small island.
Viera asked, “What are you working on at the moment, Harry?”
Harry looked around as if to make sure he couldn’t be overheard; his dinner companion had put down his phone. “This is my son, George. He works with me in the business. Our new development is going to be an interesting one.”
George said, “I don’t think you should say anything, Dad, not yet.”
Harry waved his hand in dismissal of his son’s words. “David and his girl won’t say anything.”
She zoned out from the conversation. She wasn’t Viera’s girl, but she had to question whether she wanted to be. She didn’t know the answer, not entirely. Harry was still talking.
“We’ve had a small hiccup. But the project we’re working on is going to be a one-off. We’re going to restore one of the round towers on the headland and make it part of a small development of exceptional luxury apartments. There’s a reasonable amount of land, some meadowland, and we’ll be able to put in a small health complex—swimming pool and gym.”
George said, “We’ve hit a bit of a problem. The tower caught fire. You probably saw it in the paper.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Viera tense.
“That’s right,” she said. “A gentleman died. Kurt Englebrook.”
Harry said, “Yes, he was my partner in this deal. A terrible tragedy.”
“The news said there was some issue about that land the tower is on.”
“Yes, some eco-warriors with bleeding hearts tried to invoke the old right-of-way across the land. These things are so archaic. They wanted to march right through the edge of the woods that surround the manor. Kurt won the case, but an appeal’s been lodged, and is scheduled to go to court soon.”
“And what will happen to your business partnership now?”
Harry smiled. “Kurt left the land to someone who worked for him. I’ve met with her, and she’ll think about continuing with the deal. Money talks, and I’m sure she’ll see things my way.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Chloe leaned closer to Jessica and whispered, “I’m surprised you agreed to come today. I would have thought this would be the last place you would want to be.”
“I’ve been going to these art classes for the last six months. I’m not going to give up just because Kurt is dead, and he was a treacherous bastard.”
She looked at her sister. Jess was calm, too calm. “He did nothing wrong. What’s your issue?”
Jessica whispered in her ear, “Oh, I bet he did something. Why the hell would he leave the house and the art collection to Eva?”
Chloe opened her mouth, but Jess’s raised palm stopped the words.
“I get that he had to leave her the art—that was apparently all sewn up under the divorce agreement—but I don’t see why he had to leave her a £10 million house. My home, to be exact.”
Chloe kept her voice calm. “It was her home first.” There was a dark side to her sister; what Jess wanted, Jess got—no matter the circumstances. Her breaking up Kurt and Eva’s marriage had never sat right with Chloe.
Jess rolled her eyes. “Boo-hoo. More to the point is why Kurt decided to leave her anything he wasn’t legally obligated to. If I find out he was sleeping with her . . .” The ominous words hung in the air.
Chloe ignored her. Jess had lost her husband; the least she could do was cut her some slack. She sipped her tea from a polystyrene cup as she took in the others in the room. Angela had run these art classes for some time, and she alternated with Richard as the tutor. In addition to her own private studio, which Chloe had heard about but never seen, there was a large room on top of the building with huge windows, hardwood floors and plenty of space for at least a dozen easels. The participants came and went, and Chloe was slightly surprised to see that in addition to herself and Jessica, Eva was also present.
“What the hell is she doing here? Don’t speak to her.” Jess had obviously spotted Eva as well.
There were also half a dozen other budding artists, some of whom were active in the local art community. Chloe had only started these lessons because Jessica had been to art school and wanted company. Jess had decided to take up painting again to impress Kurt, whose attention she thought was wavering. Perhaps it had been?
Both Richard and Angela were present today, and Chloe sighed inwardly as she saw Jessica sit up straight in her seat, her chest pushed forward to accentuate her full breasts.
“Quit that,” she hissed. “Kurt was, for all intents and purposes, your ever-loving husband. You’re meant to be the grieving widow, and if Kurt was doing the dirty, you’d be better off looking like the aggrieved party. Stop trying to attract Richard. You’ve been doing enough of that over the past few months.” Jessica ignored her and pushed her chest out farther.
Chloe glanced around and noticed that Eva was staring at them, a look of distaste on her face when she saw Jessica’s posturing.
Chloe wanted to get started, slap some paint on the canvas and get away from all these people. Then the door to the art studio opened.
◆◆◆
A helpful gallery assistant answered Dewar’s query with a nod towards the stairs. “Angela is upstairs. Go on up and follow the corridor to the door at the end.” Le Claire’s nostrils twitched as the heavy smell of paint and turpentine blasted them the moment they entered the loft-style space.
He saw Angela Laine straightaway. What he hadn’t expected was to see a dozen other people, four of whom were becoming extremely familiar to him. Richard Grainger lounged in a high-back chair while Angela pinned various photographs of paintings onto a large board. Jessica, Chloe and Eva stood behind canvases mounted on wooden easels. Eva was at the far side of the room, a frosty distance between her and the two sisters, and she was separated from them by several other artists or would-be artists. He wasn’t too sure of their proficiency, and from their nervous faces nor were they.
He collected himself and said, “Miss Laine, we were hoping to have a word with you.” He looked around the room. “In private, please.”
Angela drew
back and raised a questioning brow, before saying, “Of course. Richard, you’ll have to start things off.” She turned and addressed the room, “Please excuse me. Richard will take you through the techniques of three of the grandmasters, and then you’ll work on some of your own pieces.” She ushered them through a door at the end of the studio. “This is my office. How can I help you?”
“We wanted to have a general chat about your relationship with Kurt Englebrook and anything you know that might assist us in our enquiries.”
“I met Kurt after I started seeing Rudy. He’s my boyfriend’s dad. What more can I say? I guess I saw him a couple of times a month at the most.”
“Do you know why anyone would want to hurt him?”
“No, not at all. I mean, I obviously only knew him socially. He was always pleasant, though. I don’t know what he was like professionally.”
“You didn’t know him particularly well?”
“I don’t think a lot of people did. Kurt could be distant and not easy to read.”
“How did Rudy and Nils get on with their father?”
“I believe you would have to ask them that. I really couldn’t comment.”
Why didn’t people just answer his damn questions? He glared at her. “Please try.”
She shrugged. “They are family, so there was the odd upset, but they always made up.”
“Tell me about these upsets.”
“Look, it’s nothing. Nils and Kurt would often have cross words. Kurt didn’t approve of some of Nils’s life choices. But that’s not unusual. Different generations and all that.”
Her pursed lips indicated a desire not to speak further, but that wasn’t going to be an option.
“I’m going to need you to be more specific. What choices?”
Her eyes flashed. Angela Laine seemingly didn’t like being told what to do.
“Nils was a druggie. A rich boy with more money than sense, restraint or morals. That didn’t tie in with who Kurt was or how he expected his family to act.” There was a bite to the words.
“What about Rudy? Did his father approve of him and his life choices?”
From the set of her shoulders, he saw she hadn’t mistaken his inference. “I got on fine with Rudy’s parents. I may not be from the same background as his, but I haven’t turned out too shabby.”
They left her to go back to her class. Dewar said, “She was fairly defensive at the end.”
“Indeed. We need to look at the sons and their relationship with their father.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Susan headed home to the sanctuary of her bedroom. Sleep wouldn’t come, but she at least reached a resolution. She’d tell Riley the truth. It didn’t matter anymore, not with Kurt gone and everyone else moved on. She sent Riley a text and asked that he come to see her as soon as possible. He wasn’t going to like what she had to say, but it was better coming from her than anyone else. She glanced at the bedside cabinet and the piles of bills of sale. She felt a twinge of guilt, but in a rash moment, she’d grabbed all the papers and shoved them into her bag. She didn’t know why, but she felt there was something off about them. They might end up being her bargaining chips if she needed them.
There was another call she had to make. There was no answer on the mobile, so she sent a quick message via WhatsApp asking for a chat. She glanced at the plastic folder. She’d better hide it. She looked around the room and settled on the suitcase tucked into the space between the wardrobe and the wall. She’d pop it in there. With that taken care of, she sorted out her other issue and called Harry Vautier. She knew she was doing the right thing. It was all she could do, but not everyone would respect her decision. Tough.
She heard a low whine and a persistent scratching at her bedroom door. She sighed, glanced at her watch and reluctantly threw the duvet to the side. It was almost 9:00 p.m. She’d no idea how he knew, but Khan always appeared at this time each night, ready for a quick walk and his night-time pee. As soon as she opened the door, a black nose and brown snout shoved through the opening. Khan’s sleek body followed immediately. Susan’s heavy heart lifted. He was a beautiful boy, and she’d loved him since he was a tiny puppy. Three years later and that little being was now a full-grown Doberman with the sweetest nature.
“Come on, handsome. Let’s go.”
She’d pulled on jogging pants and a tee to lie in bed, so she simply slipped her arms into a hooded top and pushed her feet into the trainers that permanently lived by the front door.
The lane was dark, the neighbouring homes draped in shadows, occasional windows illuminated in yellow light. Few people closed blinds or drew curtains. The only people who walked this way were locals. Susan turned at a knocking sound. Her elderly neighbour, Carole Forbes, waved at her from her kitchen window. She would be washing the cup from her final drink of the evening, or perhaps it would be a glass, for Carole liked a bit of a tipple. Susan waved back. She could set her clock by Carole. She chuckled out loud. Perhaps people said the same about her.
They headed along the familiar route. She had walked this way every night for three years. She followed the lane for about ten minutes before reaching a wooden five-bar gate. She opened it and slipped through. Khan pulled at the lead. He knew what was coming. She undid the catch on the leash, and the dog raced off. She was ever thankful that she knew the landowner, and he was happy for friends and family to walk the fields after harvest and let their animals run free. Khan bounded here and there. Rushing ahead, before stopping and looking back to make sure Susan followed.
The moon was a pearlescent globe that highlighted the dips and mounds of the furrowed field and lengthened the shadows of the trees and hedges that made up the boundary. She wasn’t worried about being out at night. This was Jersey; random crimes weren’t frequent, and she carried her rape alarm in her pocket and her phone, torch on, in her hand. She could see the lights from the houses whose gardens backed onto the field. The sky was a pale grey, and the air still held the early autumn warmth. She usually relished this time, this moment of quiet and reflection after a busy day. But not tonight, nor the nights before—not since Kurt’s death. She was on edge, couldn’t accept that this was now her reality. He’d been such a large part of her life for so long. A tiny part of her whispered in her ear; now that Kurt was gone, so was the past, their past. No one would ever know now. She was safe.
She heard a noise, not one of the familiar background sounds of hooting owls, rustling leaves and disturbed undergrowth as the nocturnal creatures went about their business. It was a loud snap. Twigs being broken underfoot. Someone was there.
She called out, “Hello?” Then clamped her lips tight together. If it was someone up to no good, did she expect them to answer? She’d laugh out loud if this were a scene in a movie. And she wasn’t going to head in the direction of the sound. She was getting out of here. “Khan. Khan, come on. Let’s go.”
She could hear him racing across the compacted ground. Was he coming back to her? She thought she heard another noise, closer still, coming from the dense woodland that bordered the fields. “Khan, come on, boy.”
Her usually dutiful dog didn’t react. All she could see was his backside popping up over some hay bales. What was he doing? She waved his leash in the air. “Come on, let’s get out of here.” He didn’t even make a move to indicate he’d heard her. “Khan, come on!” Nothing.
She blew out a huff of air. This wasn’t like him. She hurried across the edge of the field, along the earthen path beaten flat by numerous walkers over the years. She walked the same way every night. Usually, she would take more care, but she was on edge, tense. Perhaps the last few days had unnerved her, for she wasn’t typically anxious or fearful of the dark. This was a route she’d taken hundreds of times and never encountered any problems. She had her beautiful Khan with her, and few would be stupid enough to cause trouble with a Doberman in its prime on watch-duty. Of course, what any would-be attacker wouldn’t know was that Khan was the sweetest of dog
s and was exceptionally friendly. He would happily approach anyone for a cuddle and had even been known to get chased by smaller dogs when they walked on the beach. A definite case of misleading appearances.
As she neared Khan, something flew past her ear and landed on the ground, perhaps three feet away. She peered closer. Khan was on it in a second. What the hell was it? Whatever it was, he was consumed by it, and not by Susan’s pleas. Khan lifted his nose to the sir, sniffed and ran across the field. Shit. He stopped. Was he eating something? She’d have to go and get him.
She hurried across the uneven ground. She stumbled and cried out as a sharp pain came from her back. Something hit her. Again and again. She fell to the ground. Pellets of some sort struck her all over—back, legs, arms. One got her head, and she collapsed facedown. She was in agony.
Muffled footsteps were the first sign that she wasn’t alone. She looked up in fear that quickly turned to relief as recognition replaced terror “Help me, please. I’ve been attacked.” Tears clogged her throat and blurred her vision. She tried to sit up but couldn’t push through the pain. The oppressive dark pressed down, and around them. The attacker could still be nearby. They needed to get to safety. “I can’t move. Please call the police.”
Her voice faltered as her plea trailed into the silence. She took in the blank look. The weapon was raised high and then smashed into her face. She knew no more.
◆◆◆
Le Claire’s eyes shot open, and his heart hammered, the dream already fading and becoming distorted. It took him a moment to properly come to and realise where he was. He swung his feet to the side and sat up. Checked the time and saw it was gone 11:00 p.m. He’d got in at 8:00 p.m., bone-weary and mentally exhausted from thinking, from attempting to decipher the fragments of Kurt Englebrook’s life. Who was he and what made someone murder him? What made a person deliberately start a fire by dousing another human being in petrol and setting a fire before locking them into a medieval tower from which there could be no escape? He shivered, even though the room was warm. He’d eaten a sandwich, downed a beer and told a concerned Sasha he had to crash. He’d fallen asleep and into the dream almost immediately.
Blood Rights (A Jack Le Claire Mystery) Page 12
